Lead Me Slowly Into Heartbreak
by Ace-of-spades3
Summary: 30Romances: Theme 25 Maillot, paradox: Amarant watches Freya dancing and his mind wanders. He burns for her.


If it is at all possible, read this while listening to Sigur Ros - Hoppipolla. It is awesome, and my inspiration for this. Failing that, Jose Gonzales - Heartbeats. If you want either of these songs, email me and I'll try to send you them. I strongly suggest this.

Righto, this was written for the LiveJournal challenge '30 Romances'. It's really fun This broke my heart to write. It's quite sad, but not in a bad way, more in a wistful way. Please R&R! I'd very much appreciate it. Enjoy!

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There is no music but a piano in my mind. Every spin causes a crescendo, every step appassionato, the cadence full of soul and power. The piano is the colour of dull cream. She is the colour of moonlight on a lake. Her eyes flutter as she breathes shallowly, flickers of peacock and lime and grass and emerald. 

Emerald.

She's so precious. She told me that when she was younger, she used to hate learning dances. I believed her then, but now, looking at her practically floating, I think she was lying, trying to look like the powerful, tough knight that she is. She dances to the beat of my heart, landing on pointed toes and making a tune of hollow, soft thumps on the unvarnished floor. They could be strokes of a violin, or chimes on the ivories for all I knew, because all I knew at that moment was her.

Thump.

White shirt clung to her as she spun. Standing on tiptoes, no shoes. Black maillot tight about her legs. She's fascinating. Her hair is free and loose, and it flies in strands about her beautiful face. The ballroom of Alexandria castle is unfinished. It had been locked up for years; no joy had rung throughout the castle for longer than anyone remembered. We saved the world. The ballroom was unlocked.

Dirty white paint is peeling from the walls. Faintly, faintly, a pattern of flowers can be made out. They are only slightly darker than the white. The floor is unvarnished, and instead of a rich mahogany, it is a dirty, dusty grey-brown, and her feet make imprints where she moves. A moth-eaten tapestry hangs from the far wall, and an old embellished fireplace stands on the eastern wall. Wind from down the chimney had blown the old ash onto the floor, and the grate has accumulated rust. Cream pillars are covered in cracks, and they stand about two metres from the wall. The room is perfectly square, and there are eight pillars in all, tarnished by light and dirt and lack of love.

It's ugly and it's beautiful.

Wherever she steps, she lights up the room. The ribbon she always has tied to her flails about her body, spinning late about her, leaving her with a trail of yellow wherever she goes. She's humming. Her leg lifts high above her head as she spins, and she reaches a hand back to hold the tip. Her balance is perfect. She never wobbles or falls. She is perfect.

Perfect.

Her.

It was always about her. I hated her when I met her. She was so god damned neat and pristine and honourable. She was everything I was not. I was rage and disarray and disloyalty. I had no one, I wanted no one. Now I cannot give her up. She is my drug, my alcohol, my gambling, my addiction.

Mine.

She will never know. I will not say. She is torture, she is health. She bleeds from my wounds, mine, my ether, my nectar, my life. She is happy, she is dancing, she is alive. I am a shell, a bitter reminder of all that cannot touch her. She would burn, she would die, she would mar. My touch would be her death, while it would be my deliverance. She is too pure, I'm too weak. Nothing could make me tell her how I love her.

Love?

I make to leave, and she stops dancing. I freeze. She wasn't meant to know I was here.

"Amarant?"

What do I say?

"Is that you?"

I keep to the shadows.

"Yeah."

She pulls a cloth from the pocket in her trousers and runs it softly across her brow. Her hair is wild, and she is breathing heavily. She is more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. She is gold. She is mythril. She is diamond.

"What were you doing, skulking about there?"

"Not a lot."

"Were you watching me?"

I don't answer. Freya stands looking at me. A thin lock of hair has fallen in front of her stunning eyes. Heart stopping. Crowd stopping. She looks at you, and you feel like you own the world. She is my world. She had her arms folded, and she's tapping her foot impatiently. I lean against one of the pillars and give her a withering look before replying sulkily:

"Yeah. What of it?"

Freya looks surprised, and she unfolds her arms. She flicks the hair from her face and eyes me dubiously, before asking softly:

"Really? I didn't think you'd like it."

"I didn't."

Freya grins. Obviously, I didn't really sound like I meant it, and she shakes her head before putting her tiny little hand in my abnormally large one. I regard it dangerously, but she's never been scared of me. I'm terrified of her.

"Come one. Dance with me Coral."

"I don't dance."

What can I say? I'm hardly Mr Graceful. Have you seen my feet? If she wants a dancing partner, then she can go find Fratley. I'm sure he's full of the grace and rhythm that Burmecians are accustomed to.

"Everyone dances, Coral, and you are no exception. Now dance with me."

She pulls me onto the floor, and I scuff my feet, making loud, hollow echoes reverberate around the ballroom. She is silent, and she looks over her shoulder at me, mirth in her eyes. Her hair swings around her face. A pretty little smile is on her mouth. My hand inadvertently tightens around hers. I think she notices, but she says nothing.

In this silence we will slow dance.

"Come on Amarant. And don't pout. You're a grown man."

She places one of my hands on her hip. She is so slight, I'm afraid I'll break her. I break everything. I can't be trusted. Then she lifts the other in her hand and holds it aloft. My finger itches to stroke her fringe from her face, but I don't. She then walks into me, her body pressed affectionately against mine. It's like she's subconsciously teasing me, like she's laughing at me behind a mask of sincerity, but I know her. She wasn't built with malice or cruelty. All she knows is good. Her hand reaches my shoulder and she checks her feet, kicking mine gently into place, before she stands still. She looks into my russet eyes and smiles a little before whispering softly:

"Dance with me."

She moves to the right, and I stumble after her, until I realise that she wants me to lead. She's nudging me in all the right directions, giving me little hints with her eyes, and I am totally bewildered. Her hip keeps nudging against mine, and I close my eyes at the contact.

Hold me.

Thrill me.

Kiss Me.

Kill Me.

I want you so much Freya. We're beginning to spin, a perverse, improvised, lovely waltz, and I feel like I'm floating. The dull, dusky sunlight is streaming through the skylight of the ballroom, lead piping casting swirling shadows on the circle of lit floor around us. Freya glows. This time, it is her that tightens her hand, and her eyes close gently for a second, basking in the sunlight. Freya, it was always you, Love. Everything I did, it was all for you. You can make me fly.

I release my grip on her and she spins outwards, her hair splaying out around her face, before pulling her back and holding her tightly. I feel her clasp the back of my shirt where her hand has landed, clutching at the material. We're no longer waltzing. We're still moving, but she I have my arms tight around her, and she has hers around mine. I can feel her heartbeat. She's so small, wrapped in my arms. So small, so fragile, I could break her. I hear her whisper something to me:

"Don't leave me."

I shake my head. Fratley. She's with Fratley. She always will be. I could never compete with that. Would she care if I disappeared? Would she search the world for news of me, for any slight hope of my arrival? I can never tell her. I can't. If I let her know I felt, I could never let her go.

"Don't ever leave me, Coral"

"Why should I?"

"Everyone leaves me. Everyone I care for, everyone I love. Don't you dare."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She lets her grip go a little, but her head remains still lying gently on my chest. I want to let her go, but I can't. Why is she doing this? She's making everything so hard. I don't know what she wants from me, I never do.

"Crescent?"

"I think..."

I know what I have to do.

"Yes?"

If I can't leave her, I'll make her leave me.

"I think..."

I'm so sorry Freya.

"I think I'm in love with you."

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End file.
